


Both poets

by torches



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-24
Updated: 2007-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 18:28:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torches/pseuds/torches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's settled for being a good friend.  (Set during the INFINITY ON HIGH tours.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Both poets

Patrick would put his fist through the mesh of the speaker, but they've got a show tonight and he doesn't want to have to let the rest of the band down by ending up in the hospital.

It's really, _really_ fucking lame to realize that you've been in love with the goddamn bass player who writes songs for you and everyone in the world since the day you met him _six years_ too late to do anything about it.

Of course, sitting on the stage two hours before the doors even open (they got in early, by a miracle, and now there's time to kill) with a frown on his face and his body doing its best impression of the 'Thinker' is probably not the best way to deal with his sudden relationship issues. _Especially_ not when the reason he's having them is noted for finding ways to sneak up and irritate the shit out of him when he gets in funks just like this _anyway_, and how could Pete have any idea that this time, it's different? It's not like it's written all over Patrick's face or anything. (If it is, Patrick decides, he is going to throw himself off the spotlight rig. Only he can't possibly do that because he doesn't have the balls or the self-hatred necessary to commit suicide.) There's really only one person it could be who'd be plopping down between the speakers onstage to sit with him. He's wearing one of his Clandestine shirts, the one Patrick knows reads "part of the no future generation" on the back.

"You look like I just shot your mom. In the face. With my _penis_. Dude. What's up with that?" Part of Pete's charm is being able to say that sort of thing with a mouth that looks like it belongs on a Renaissance saint.

Lust is one thing. There isn't a fucking human being on the face of the planet who can stand seven minutes in the same room with Pete fucking Wentz without realizing there's nothing more they want in the world than to shove him into the first wall and stare as their hands smudge the mascara from his eyes like smearing bruises. Patrick never has, because he looks at Pete and he doesn't just see Pete, he sees the words Pete hands him scrawled on notebook paper, the emotions that only last long enough to burn through Patrick's melody like California fire, and he's afraid.

"If you had, my dad would kick your _ass_, Pete," Patrick says, ducking his head to hide his eyes behind the brim of his hat and grinning. "They almost ready to start sound check?"

Pete falls back, putting his hands behind his head and looking up at the lighting rig, then deciding better of it and shoving himself off the stage so he can turn and look up and see Patrick's eyes underneath his hat. (_Dick_.) "Yeah, they're pretty much done but Trohman had to take a crap so we're still waiting."

He's afraid one day he'll stop being who Pete writes for. Stupid fear, really, because they work so well together Patrick can barely remember a time they weren't apart. But it's his fear – in a way, it's as good as a notebook scribbled full of crossed-out lyrics, because it's something he only has because of Pete, and he's just as afraid of no longer being afraid as he is of losing those pieces of paper.

If he tried, if he did _anything_, he might – one day he'd be who Pete writes about, and then – then there won't be any words left to sing, if that happens. Pete's – without Patrick, there wouldn't be a song. Patrick isn't sure Pete's ever said it in so many words, but they've fought – they've _talked_ \- enough, enough to know it's as much about Patrick working the notes as it is Pete laying the lines. Bandmates don't give each other one-night stands, they give each other shoulder punches on the tour bus and shared secret smiles.

It's easy to fall for Pete Wentz; Patrick knows. Fucked - _broken_ up, the cocksure smile and the burning, bottomless eyes, like pools of kerosene just waiting for the match of the stage; bravado transparently hiding fear and need, begging for something you can't tell yourself you don't want to give. It's all Patrick's ever wanted to give. He's settled for being a good friend.

Bad _fucking_ timing.

Patrick mock-winces. "You keep _way_ too much track of your bandmates' bodily functions, Pete. People're gonna start asking _questions_."

It's all just a setup for Pete to smile, anyway, so it's good that he does, one of the smiles that the crowd will be shrieking at when they do finally go onstage; people would follow Pete into hell for the chance to see that smile, Patrick knows, but he gets to see it every day. "So what? Let 'em ask the fucking questions, man, I have nothing to hide. _Nothing_."

Patrick considers saying "Yeah, not even your dick," but that's probably what Pete meant anyway, so he grins and adjusts his hat on his head instead. "Be careful. This is _Paris_, they'll ask you _everything_, right down to the size –" which makes Pete _smile_ like someone just handed him a free DS, so Patrick _knows_ this line of thought needs to go nowhere and go there fast, "and please I don't want to know it so don't tell me _please_." Pete frowns up at Patrick, which only makes him look hotter. Patrick covers his face with his hand. "God, you have _issues_."

(It's – easier than it has any right to be, settling for just that; smiles and looks and gigglefits and stupid decisions and "Jaenae's just _like_ that" so it's not really surprising she did it again, knowing that those touches don't mean anything, that Pete touches everyone in special ways, even the fans he'll only know in the minutes before and after they hit the stage.)

Patrick's pretty sure if they could get Pete's face to _stay_ looking like that (issues, fucking _boxes_ of them) they could stick Pete on the front of the bus and they'd never have to worry about the headlights burning out ever again. "Ahhh, you love it," Pete says, tossing his head back. Pete's hair, Patrick notes, resolutely fails to be moved from its gelled position in front of his face. After half an hour on stage, the gel will have started to break down, and Pete's hair will start sticking, wet and limp, to the skin of his forehead, only for him to shake it loose before ripping through a bassline, his eyes pinprick-small under the bright spotlights. Patrick has seen girls faint from Pete doing less.

"You're not helping," Patrick mutters against his palm, which gets a response of "Whah?" from Pete. Patrick lowers his hand. God. If this is love, he hates it already. "I _said_, 'Keep on _wishing_!'" It comes out more irritated than he means it to sound.

All it would have been, all it ever needed to be was a thing, just – a Pete and Patrick thing, maybe it could be done and ignored if Patrick could ever figure out – if Patrick were any good at writing the words he wanted to put in his mouth and that thought sounded just as filthy as it wasn't meant to sound. All the best words he's ever said belonged to other people, all that – all that he's ever had, that – anything that's ever made him feel _good_ and _fit_ \- it's never been his, just words he's taken from other people and made work for him, somehow. He's – always _been_ a better – a better mouthpiece than a person.

Pete rocks back on his heels, sticking his hands in his pockets and whistling. "You're touchy today," he says.

Patrick closes his eyes and wishes Trohman were finished with that shit already. His fingers tense; he shakes his head sharply. This – he was trying not to – there were really no right words for this. "I'm _always_ touchy before we play, Pete." He's been on the cover of Rolling Stone, he's – there's a DVD player in the bus, he's _seen_ that damn Julia Roberts movie with Pete how many times now, he _knows_ this story. But it's just a story. Just a movie. Life – you can talk about life when it's over, turn it into a movie or a book or a song, but it never works that way when it's happening, and Patrick's never believed in cinematic fairytales, anyway.

Pete sighs, shifting his weight from the right to the left, cocking his hip. "All right. You don't want to talk about it, I get it." His shoulders were tense for no good reason, and from where Patrick was sitting, Pete's eyes looked almost like they wouldn't even need a match to catch fire. "I'm gonna go say hi to the fans outside for a bit. We got here early – we don't have to start sound check for thirty. See you soon, then." It was – well, it was Pete, and Pete – did things that didn't make much sense to Patrick, sometimes, or, well, only a Pete kind of sense, which was only sensible after six years of putting up with a Pete kind of sense. Like stomping off because Patrick looked mopey and didn't want to talk about it, it just – there should have been more _questions_, or – not just walking off like – Patrick didn't know what.

Which – Patrick was supposed to say what, in response? There – he can't – it isn't the place for the _words_, and he can't say the words. He – he wants to – there are enough lyrics to find the way to say it with other people's words, but it – this is important, it needs music, but he can't write the lyrics to it.

Six goddamn years. He's always a more successful liar when he lies to himself first, and now – now he's stuck himself here, six whole years as Pete's friend, as Pete's melody, the beat that held Pete aloft and – and _nothing else_, never followed through on any of it and now – six years is too long to wait to tell your best friend "I love you and always have," like a bad movie. After six years, relationship inertia's kicked in and his role is set; any change and it's catastrophe like a car crash or a bad scene.

He –

"Pete!" Which gets Pete's attention, at least, gets him to turn around, his head tilting slightly with his lower lip pushing out in that way it does when Pete's confused, and Patrick realizes Pete forgot to shave when they woke up this morning, and there's hours-old stubble on his face that – the fans are going to love it, they always do, but right now Patrick wonders how Pete manages to turn carelessness into a fucking art form, how it manages to make a little spot in his gut twist and fill with warmth. "Uh – hold on." Pete's eyebrows raise, then raise some more, when Patrick clambers off the stage with a huff.

"Dude – the fuck, you hate publicity," Pete says, and his eyebrows just keep going up and up, like a cartoon character, a living cartoon, and – well, possibly there is no better explanation for the existence of Pete Wentz than that. Patrick wants nothing more than to grab him by the sides of his head and kiss him but he remembers Jeanae, remembers all the fuckups and screwups Pete has ever dated and been broken by and as much as he wants to, Patrick knows he can never be someone to break Pete like that.

"Yeah, but – fuck it, I need the distraction of lots of people screaming your name for a while, you mind?" He grins at Pete. Pete grins back. This – a glance, a look, a smile, just for him – that's enough for Patrick, for now.

He'll stick to the music.

"C'mon," Pete says to Patrick with a smile smooth and sharp and warm all the way down, and Patrick follows behind him every step of the way.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried for porn; I failed. I tried to write RPS more than once: I failed. This is all I ever managed - all I ever will manage, I suspect. All the fault of Beckah and Zee, who have probably forgotten this story was ever written for them. Beta by rynia and wakemexsoftly on lj. Title stolen, pretentiously, from Delany's DHALGREN. These notes are different than the notes written for the original version.
> 
> This is not a true story.


End file.
